


Inkredible!!!!

by bruisespristine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 19:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12065181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruisespristine/pseuds/bruisespristine
Summary: Half of tattooing is instinct, gut. Knowing what shade depth to leave, ignoring the reddening of the pale skin making colour wash darker and thicker. It’s instinct to know where the lines curl past the smears of ink on the surface, it’s instinct to place the lines precisely as deep as they need to be. To not cut the skin bloody and raw, to pat and tap the muscles to soften them.Shaw’s a surgeon.





	1. Flower Power

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winged_mammal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winged_mammal/gifts).



> Hello, I have been watching FAR too much Ink Master and also just recently finished a backpiece, so here is some nonsense for you. Hopefully it's enjoyable nonsense! 
> 
> My tattoo knowledge base comes from having a bunch (and also Ink Master) so apologies for any glaring errors, feel free to point anything out if it's a quick fix. 
> 
> anons are off because some people are garbage :)

“Yo, Shaw, your flower power is early.” Zoe grins as she enters the well lit studio through the side door. She’s right, Shaw can just about make out the lanky, leather jacket-clad form of her new client leaning up against the wall outside the front door. The parlour logo ‘Machine Tattoos’ emblazoned on the glass covers her head, but she’s recognisable anyway. 

Shaw grunts, and keeps setting up. It’s still twenty minutes before they open, and she has no intention of letting this Root character in early. It’s gonna be a long day. She finishes covering her station and leans over the metal counter that borders the room to look at her design again. It’s gonna need a little rearrangement to allow for the curve of Root’s hip, but she thinks it’s pretty close. Hopefully they can lay half the outline and some of the first layer of colour down today, if Root can sit still for that long. 

Up front, Joss swears under her breath and closes a drawer, “Zoe, did you move the compass again?” 

“Oh yeah, my bad. It’s on the desk downstairs,” Zoe calls back, now reclining in a padded tattoo chair and admiring her manicure, “I’m doing that babe with the bubbles today.” 

“Not til eleven though?” Joss inquires, bustling about straightening their merch and the portfolio books on the table. Unlike most parlours, Machine Tattoos doesn’t do flash. There’s no way they’d even make enough money to stay afloat if it wasn’t for John’s sugar daddy, Harold Finch, art enthusiast and weirdo billionaire. John himself is humming quietly as he sorts through his jewellery. He takes walk-ins for piercings, and usually has a pretty busy schedule, but the rest of them set their schedule when they like, within reason.

“Yeah, but I wanted to watch Shaw tattoo her biggest fan,” Zoe snickers, gets to her feet, kisses her first three fingers and presses it against the Ink Master trophy on the display shelf. 

“I hate you so very, very much,” Shaw mutters, checking her colour palette and then sitting down and massaging the bridge of her nose. She has a headache already.

“If you hate me does that mean you don’t want your McMuffin?” Zoe chortles, pointing at the front desk where a paper bag lists sadly to one side next to a steaming cup of coffee.

Shaw growls something that is neither yes or no, and rolls her eyes when Zoe just gives her a little finger wave. “C’mon, you know you’re gonna be placing that for an hour before you even get going, you’ve got a six hour morning. Eat the muffin.” Zoe shamelessly makes the whole sentence into a lurid innuendo, and Shaw reluctantly snorts, getting to her feet. 

“I hope bubbles squirms the entire time,” she tells Zoe on the way past.

“I’d rather do ribs than butt,” Zoe rejoinders merrily, clearly having a great time. “What do you reckon. High and tight, or flat as a pancake?” 

“Try not to speculate about client’s butts,” Joss requests in the tone of someone who knows it’s a pointless exercise. That's why she's the manager... because she's the only one of them who even tries to be polite.

Shaw grabs her second breakfast and flops in one of the client-waiting couches, putting her motorcycle boots up on the table. Her black jeans catch the sunlight streaming through the door and print the logo in shadow on her legs, and then another shape moves across it. She sighs as she lifts her eyes and sees Root waving at her through the door. She should have stayed in the back, out of sight.

But Joss is already heading to let Root in. “It’s eight minutes to!” Shaw complains, knowing it’s useless. 

“You can talk about the design. It’s good for business.” Joss clicks the lock open and Shaw can hear the friendly smile in her voice. “Hey, welcome back. Shaw’s just getting ready, but come on in.” Shaw is actually clearly sitting in a couch doing nothing, but maybe it looks like she’s preparing herself emotionally. She tries to look thoughtful, in case Joss withholds her candy stash later. 

“Thanks,” Root still somehow sounds like she’s either hitting on you or is about to steal your lunch money. “I know I’m early. Just excited, I guess.” 

Joss leads her over to the sofas and Shaw stuffs the remainder of her greasy muffin in her mouth, regretting it immediately. She’s trying not to choke on the huge mouthful when they make it to her. Root smirks as though it’s the sexiest thing she’s ever seen, and Shaw looks away, grabs for her scalding coffee to wash the dry dough down. 

“Cute,” Root drawls, and Shaw manages to force breath past the lump of partially masticated food in her throat.

“What?” She demands, already completely regretting to take this client on. Ever since their first meeting when Root had earnestly explained that after seeing Shaw’s work on the single episode of Ink Master Zoe pulled her in for, she’d been sure that Shaw is the artist for her, Shaw just  _ knew  _ she was going to be a nightmare. Of course, Shaw doesn’t mind hearing people wax poetic about her artwork, she’s not one of the most famous realism artists in the San Fran area for nothing, but ... there’s something patronising about the way Root goes about it. It infuriates Shaw for no real reason she can put her finger on.

“I said the mermaid is cute,” Root replies, pointing at the sketch of a mermaid surrounded by bubbles that Zoe’s left on the table. Shaw resist the urge to squeeze her eyes shut and hope Root isn’t there anymore by the time she opens them. 

“Yeah. Well. Flowers, a book and some gears,” Shaw takes a breath, talking to clients is her least favourite part of being a tattoo artist. “Wanna see what I’ve got?” 

“Oh boy, do I.” Root gives her a wicked grin, taps one long finger on her slightly parted lips. Shaw can see her canines, they’re pointed and white and lethal looking. Her tongue is pressed up against one. 

Shaw forgets what she was going to say.

“I’ll just...” Behind Root, Joss peels away, and Shaw sees her making a ‘what the fuck’ face at Zoe, who is pantomiming applause. That brings Shaw back to reality.

“Right, yeah. So I did two mock ups based on what you said, but I’m going to need to see the canvas to get it placed just right,” Shaw puts her business voice on, and deliberately says ‘canvas’ instead of ‘inner thigh’ or ‘ass’. Root’s going for a piece that curls all the way around, right along her bikini line and over her butt to meet on her hip. Shaw’s come up with a design that has a lot of size variety in the flowers, and she thinks if she prints them all separately she’ll be able to come up with a beautiful, flowing design. 

“I trust you,” Root somehow manages to make it sound like ‘I’d fuck you’ and Shaw’s brain does a momentary freeze before Zoe leans on the back of the couch and hands her her sketches.

“Here you go!” She says brightly, “nice to see you again, Root.” 

“You too, Zoe, right? You do the geometrics?” Root grins up at her, turning the spotlight of her attention away from Shaw for a second. Shaw feels like a weight’s been taken off her sternum. 

“Yep, that’s me. You ever want some lines, you come to me first,” Zoe smirks at them both like she wants to say something else. “Of course, Shaw will take  _ excellent  _ care of you.”

“Mmhm, she seems very... Dedicated,” Root replies. Shaw can’t help but feel like they are having an entirely different conversation than the one she’s hearing. 

“You wanna take your pants off?” She demands brusquely, and then immediately regrets it as Root and Zoe both look at her with identical delighted faces.

“I would  _ love  _ to.” Root pulls one of the two sketches towards her, “or would you prefer me to keep my pants on while I look at these?” 

Shaw tries to not let her disquiet show on her face, and pulls the second sketch over, pointing at the through line of the design, “see this one follows the hipbone and over, which would end up with some of the design showing above your waistband. And this one,” she gestures to the one Root has in her hand, “has a lower, thinner spread. Also heavier lines. I know you want realism, but there’s still some variety in that, so look at the linework in both.” 

“Oh, I love it,” Root breathes, and it’s the first time Shaw feels like she’s saying exactly what she means since they met. Root traces her finger around the looping vines Shaw’s used to connect the flowers. Between the roses and jasmine there’s less greenery than you would find it real life, but Shaw wants to leave Root’s pale skin showing through. The book lies open at the base of the vines in one image, and halfway up, hanging open and held by the flower tendrils in the other.

The gears are worked in and out as though they’ve been threaded onto the plants themselves. It’s a good design, and Shaw’s pleased to see the awe in Root’s eyes. 

“This one’s perfect,” Root touches the hanging book, the thinner lines. Shaw prefers that one as well, it’s more graceful somehow. 

“Alright then,” Shaw gets up, heads for the stairs, “Zoe will show you my station, I’ll just print these.” She shoots Zoe a Look on her way past. 

By the time she’s printed off a few copies of her stencil so she can chop it up and move bits to follow Root’s body shape, Root is waiting behind the wooden screen with no pants on. Her underwear is simple and black, as Shaw suggested. After all, there’s gonna be ink everywhere. And blood.

Root seems completely relaxed even though she’s half naked, and stretches idly as Shaw brings her prints and scissors in, putting them down on the metal and pulling gloves on. “Just give me a moment,” she says, distractedly, looking at the drawings and then Root, then the drawings again. Her critical eye comes on more slowly than usual, but it’s only a few minutes before she stops seeing a person and starts seeing the curves and shadows and flows of muscle and bone, the dips and valleys where the lines of ink need to adapt and follow or look strange to the eye. 

When she’s finished just looking, she grabs her scissors, and glances up. Root has pink cheeks and is studying a huge painting of a skull on the wall with laser intensity. Shaw’s hands work fast and confident until she has the pieces she needs. “Good?” 

“Yep,” Root tells her, and Shaw picks up her razor. Root’s pretty low on the body hair front, thigh wise, and it only takes ten minutes to shave and clean all the territory she’ll need today, plus some for leeway. Root doesn’t make a single sound while Shaw is moving her leg for access, getting her to sit down and spread. Shaw is extremely careful not to touch her anywhere unnecessary, as she always is. It’s a practical, swift and professional process. 

Satisfied, Shaw nods and sits down on the small stool next to her table. “Okay, I’m ready to start placing, if you could stand here,” Shaw points in front of her, she needs to stay seated so she’s at eyeline. Unfortunately she didn’t realise how close this would put her to Root’s actual crotch, and she pushes her stool back and sideways a little before picking up her first transfer and carefully pressing it against Root’s skin. 

This is the feature flower, the biggest one, the one everything else connects to and from. Shaw’s design makes it slightly resemble a heart, the shape, the angle. The vines emerging from behind it. It’s a beautiful thing to see how well it lies on the flattest part of Root’s hip. Shaw works as fast as she can, but Zoe was right, and Root’s been standing, pantless and barefoot on the cold tiles. She’s not shivering, but Shaw can feel how chilled her skin is. “Zoe, can you bring the heater over?” Shaw calls out, because it’s not like Zoe is actually doing anything right now except being a pain in the ass. 

She neatens up some lines and connections with a pen, and looks up when Zoe rounds the screen lugging the little portable heater and plugging it in facing Root. Shaw’s glad she’s just wearing a muscle tee, cause it’s gonna get pretty warm in here over the next few hours. 

After neatening up a few lines with a pen, she stands up and stretches, cracking her back and cocking her head as she inspects her placement. It’s going to be spectacular, she can already tell. The colour is going to leap off Root’s paper white skin, and the huge, bold flowers are well suited to the spaces Shaw’s chosen. 

“Wanna check it out?” She asks, raising her eyes to Root’s face. 

She shrugs, “I trust you.”

Shaw pauses, not totally sure what to do with that, and then waves a hand at the mirror next to her station, “you should check.” She sounds sterner than she intended, but Root just smirks in response to her tone and pads to the mirror. Shaw wishes she’d told her to wear socks, not just sandals. 

Root stands in front of the mirror, turning this way and that to check the full scope of the design. Well, she doesn’t sit down on the floor and spread her legs so she’s not checking the inner thigh thoroughly, but she has the look on her face that Shaw has come to recognise as pleased excitement, a client looking past the stencil to the art that will follow. 

“Yeah,” Root breathes softly, lifting her panty elastic to follow the last flowing flick of vine up over her hipbone. 

“Great.” Shaw glances around the parlour because there’s something personal and naked in Root’s face that she can’t quite understand. “Let’s get started.” 

 

***

Root sits well, solid but malleable, following Shaw’s murmured instructions and gentle hands when she has to reposition. She makes breathy little noises that start out as pained squeaks but settle into quiet groans as the adrenaline takes the edge off.

The needle buzzes, vibrations echoing through Shaw’s hand, setting the familiar ache of holding the gun exactly in place strumming through her muscles. She shifts past it easily, putting it aside as irrelevant to the here and now. Here is only bright ink and welling blood, here is smeared dark eradicating her stencil marks, wiped clean and away until the lines shine through again, and are traced, permanently stitched into white skin.

Half of tattooing is instinct, gut. Knowing what shade depth to leave, ignoring the reddening of the pale skin making colour wash darker and thicker. It’s instinct to know where the lines curl past the smears of ink on the surface, it’s instinct to place the lines precisely as deep as they need to be. To not cut the skin bloody and raw, to pat and tap the muscles to soften them. 

Shaw’s a surgeon. 

She used to want to be a doctor, to excel in a more traditional way. After her father died it seemed like achievement at school was a way she could show her mother she was okay without having to talk about it. Counsellors were so worried about her, her ‘inappropriate’ emotional responses. The fights. But as long as she got straight As no one bothered her that much, and then med school seemed like the clear choice for a secure and respectable future. 

Until she met Hersh. He’d given her her first tattoo with her saved up chore money, without scoffing at her fake ID proudly proclaiming her to be a university student. It had hurt like the blazes, changed something inside of Shaw, and made her feel more her than she ever had in the past. It was like getting control over something she never even knew existed. 

Hersh had seen something in her. He hired her cash in hand as help at his parlour, and started teaching her the rules of his craft as soon as she left school. Her mom hadn’t been enthusiastic about Shaw’s abrupt career plan change but she’d soon adjusted to the new circumstances when she saw Shaw more balanced than she’d ever been. This is where she belongs, now. Here with a gun in her hand and blood flowing up to the marks she leaves behind. Here she exists fully and perfectly in the moment.

There’s sweat on her brow, she swipes it away with the back of her arm and lets the gun idle for a moment, looking at her work. Root breathes deeply through her nose, an adjustment breath. Her eyes are on Shaw’s arms. She’s watching the play of muscles rippling under the thick black and grey artwork that covers Shaw’s skin. 

For a moment, Shaw feels unbalanced, like she owes Root an explanation for the choices she’s made. That’s an unfamiliar emotion, and she can’t find the cause of it for a moment. Then she think it’s because it’s so different from the art that she makes, that she's leaving behind her hands on Root's skin. Even though she’s a colour artist, into colour realism in her own creations, for her own body she’s never felt drawn to colour. The linework starting at her collarbones is rooted in her mother’s culture, black and grey shading replacing the bright blues and burnt orange of the tiled patterns they replicate. From there it flows into abstract designs down her left arm. Her right is forest and mountain, unrolling natural scenery. 

The weight of Root’s eyes isn’t critical, though, it’s interested, as Shaw changes out her needle for a round magnum to add some more depth to her colour field. “Who did yours?” Root asks, her voice soft and husky. She doesn’t sound like someone who’s sat through two hours of pain—and tattooing  _ hurts _ , Shaw would know. 

She clears her throat, keeping her eyes on her gun as she switches out and test buzzes before moving Root’s leg over and out so she can work on the inside of her thigh for a while, breaking up the pain into areas. “Joss did Yosemite,” she jerks the gun in her right hand to indicate that side, “and Zoe did the tiling and abstracts.” She knows when she leans over, with her head bent down over Root’s thigh, Root will be able to see the designs at the top of her spine. “My old boss did my back piece.” She presses down with her foot and moves the needle onto Root’s skin. The slight inhale is the only response Root gives to the onset of the pain.

“Mm,” Root hums softly, and there’s a touch on the back of Shaw’s left shoulder so light she could have imagined it, except for the goosebumps that shiver their way down her arm, almost making her jog the gun and ruin the smooth curve of pink she’s layering. “Sorry,” Root breathes it, and settles back.

When Shaw glances up, her eyes are closed, a small furrow between her eyebrows, and her teeth caught in her lip. Something stirs in Shaw’s belly and she growls softly as she shies away from the reaction, losing herself in the blurs of colour steadily growing and glowing under her skilled touch. 

Root makes it four hours before she starts stiffening up, letting little curses and cries escape. They distract Shaw more than she’s accustomed to. Usually she doesn't really care if it hurts clients as long as they don’t move and ruin her creations. The accuracy Shaw’s famed for means she asks a lot from her clients, and makes that very clear in the initial design meeting. Root’s done an amazing job considering the sensitivity of some of the areas Shaw’s dropping ink into. 

She doesn’t jerk away from Shaw, though, holding still, albeit tensing enough Shaw has to pull back more often, give her a second to relax so the needles can push into softened muscle. “The tenser you are the more it hurts,” she tells Root after one particularly visceral noise escapes her.

“I know,” Root murmurs on an exhale, “I’m good.” 

“You’re moving.” Shaw tells her sternly, poking her in the thigh muscle to get it to unclench fully.

“I’m sorry.” Root responds after a moment, sounding altogether calmer and less agonised than Shaw might expect. 

“Can you make it another hour?” Shaw really would like to plug all the roses with their base colour and get the vines popping today. She’s laid the outline she wanted to, leaving the back of Root’s hip and her ass for another, future occasion. Root already won’t be able to shut her legs comfortably, not being able to sit down as well would be more than Shaw thinks she should have to handle, and she’s broken the design up accordingly. 

She remembers Hersh doing her back in quarters, after laying the outline in one exceptionally painful six hour session. He taught her that making it hard for clients to sleep just slows the healing down and increases the unpleasantness. After one night lying on her right side only, Shaw took that to heart and tried to emulate the system when possible. 

“I don’t know.” Root has roses in her cheeks as well as on her thighs, has sweat beading her upper lip and a small red line marring her lower, where her teeth have dug in. “But I’m willing to find out.” 

Shaw doesn’t answer, just ducks her head back to her work, moving Root’s foot out so she can get a better angle. 

Root makes a soft noise that doesn’t sound like pain at all, and Shaw looks up, confused, and then belatedly realises the back of her wrist is brushing up against the cotton of Root’s panties. She snatches her hand away, and tries to figure out a way to reach where she needs to without compromising anyone’s dignity. 

Root laughs quietly and sits up, swivelling so her legs are dangling off the side of the padded bed, spread wide enough for Shaw to get up close and personal with the blossoming flower—  _ Literal _ flower _ — _ she’s working on. 

She feels like she might be red in her own face, which is so out of character she’s feels awkward and bumbling, like she’s going to drop her whole gun on the floor. She’s tattooed someone’s  _ ballsack  _ for christ’s sake, and experienced zero emotion other than irritation with how much the dude squirmed. But this, single, accidental touch to the back of her wrist feels like a brand, like there’s gonna be a blister on the skin under her latex glove.

Looking up, she catches Zoe’s eye on a complete fluke, as the other artist inspects her ribcage mermaid. Zoe winks at her, and Shaw feels her cheeks heat again. She must be thirsty, or exhausted. But she asked Root to get through another hour.

It crawls. It’s the longest tattoo Shaw’s ever done. Every millimetre goes down painfully slowly, her heartbeat thuds in her ears. She’s uncomfortably aware of every shift and sound Root makes, lying down on the bed again, sitting up, shifting and moving and letting Shaw position her wherever is most convenient. Shaw’s stomach feels hot and tingly, her hands are as deft as always but her fingers feel like clumsy sausages as she wipes and inks and wipes and inks and tries to slip back into the perfect nothingness of creation. 

Finally, finally, she drops the last blood red into the last unfurling petal and sits back. Root’s chest is heaving like she’s run a marathon, but she kept her lower body completely still for Shaw. The self control she exhibited was incredible, and Shaw’s weird embarrassment turns into a sort of warm admiration for Root’s poise and pain tolerance. 

“Done?” Root eventually asks, her arm flopped over her forehead as though to shield her from the sun. 

“Done.” Shaw confirms, trying to shake herself loose of whatever part of her wants to bask in Root’s nearness for another minute. It makes her uncomfortable, and she knows her movements and voice are short and choppy as she wipes Root’s thigh down for the last time today and then reaches for the sticky wrap. “Keep this on for between twenty four and forty eight hours, take it off in the shower or with warm soapy water. It’ll make a mess, so don’t do it in bed. It’s easier if you have someone to help you...?” The last bit of her regular spiel becomes a bit of a question somehow.

“I’m sure I’ll manage.” Root drawls slowly, making heat fuzz in Shaw’s ears.

“Uh, okay. Yeah, warm soapy water, grab it from a corner and peel back slowly, flat to the skin. Don’t pull it away.” Shaw does a terrible gesture accompaniment before cutting a large piece of the peelable bandage clear and pressing it against Root’s skin.

Root only makes small breathy noises while Shaw scrabbles for the peelback outer coating and leaves the thin, delicate layer covering the open wounds on Root’s inflamed skin. It takes five large pieces of carefully cut wrap to get it all safely sealed up, and by the time she’s finished Shaw feels like she might need to scream, or run really really fast very far away from whatever weird spell Root is putting on her. “Harper’ll set you up with your next appointment up front when you pay.” Shaw almost snaps it, ready to put as much distance between herself and whatever this is as soon as possible. “Uh. See you next month.” 

She doesn’t  _ run  _ away, she tells herself, leaving her station in disarray and her client pantless. It’s a... strategic retreat, or something. She’ll tell Zoe she had to take a shit really badly, that should cover it, she decides, beelining for the bathroom.

Until next month when she has the follow up session, probably one more after that and then touchups. Shaw groans, pressing her forehead against the cold ceramic tiles next to the door. 

Maybe Root will decide she’s too weird and go to someone else to get the piece finished, she thinks. The thought was supposed to cheer her up, but she’s still feeling flat and heavy inside five hours later, with a plate of wings and a cold beer in front of her. Not even Zoe’s attempts to beat her at pool make the sensation recede. 

Every time she glances at her phone the notification beams at her from her home screen, letting her know Root’s next appointment is set for four and a half weeks from now. Shaw hovers her thumb over it repeatedly through the evening, but doesn’t swipe the announcement away until she’s slinging her coat over the back of her couch. The eager post grad student of something or other grabs at her ass through her pants, telling her to put her phone down and come play. Shaw flicks the notification to one side, wishing she could do the same thing to her brain. The student has brunette hair that looks great wrapped around Shaw’s fist, but the noises she makes are all wrong, and her thighs are pale and unmarked until Shaw digs her teeth in.

  
  
  



	2. Say Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: waxing poetic, possible latex fetish, some probably unhygienic sex in a tattoo parlour, don't kill my buzz okay this is just for fun, I'm sure Shaw will clean up in the morning
> 
> there's lines if you're just in it for the purple prose tattoo foreplay

Machine Tattoos is on Root’s way home from work. If, by ‘work’, you mean the cover job she took in order to get access to some very well-protected databases, and if, by ‘way home’, you mean an extra nine blocks of walking time. She’s dropped in enough times in the past few weeks that Harper barely looks up from sketching at the cashier counter, and John no longer leaps out of his chair to greet her. This time, however, she’s not just hoping to catch a glimpse of Shaw working away to fuel her late-night fantasies, she actually has an appointment.

She saunters across the shop floor, absently trailing her fingers across the sleeve of a hoodie she likes the look of before stopping in front of Harper and waiting for her to look up.

“What’s up,” Harper straightens and grins at Root, “oh, shit, yeah, you’re in with Shaw today.”

“That’s right,” Root drawls it deliberately, her eyes on Shaw through the arched doorway leading to the tattoo parlour. Shaw doesn’t look up, but Root can see in her body language she knows Root is there, can hear her. The tips of Shaw’s ears pinken slightly as Root watches.

“I’ll just let her know you’re here, have a seat.” Harper adds one last line to the outline of her sketch and puts her fineliner down.

“Sure,” Root flashes a smile at her, not bothering to point out that Shaw definitely knows she’s here.

Instead of sitting down, Root passes the time flicking through Shaw’s portfolio again. She can’t say exactly what it is that draws her to the muscular, stand-offish tattoo artist, but she thinks at least a bit of her fascination is genuinely based in the art Shaw creates.

The bold lines, the hyper-realistic colours, the exacting precision Shaw brings to her designs, well, they’re so photo-realistic at times that it’s hard to believe they’re created by a person. Root’s always been intrigued by machines where people have rarely captured her interest, but Shaw is... different. And easy to get a rise out of. Sadly, right now Shaw’s not even in sight through the doorway to notice Root admiring her artwork. Root sighs and turns, glancing around the big, well lit shop room.

John is reading in the soft black couches, clearly waiting for clients. Above him, a large TV screen is showing the latest season of Ink Master. Root’s not especially interested, but it’s something to occupy her while Shaw putters around in the other room. Root had stumbled on the show completely by accident, a head injury demanding she stay awake and a small hotel room offering little besides a TV in the way to amuse her. The reality show had proven to be a fine mix between entertaining and completely brainless, and Root had motored through nine episodes in a row before getting the all clear to move to an actual safehouse, and medical treatment. The episode Shaw had guested on was the last one Root watched, which had led to a bit of internet detective work after being charmed by the grouchy, self-assured artist.

It was just luck that landed Root in San Francisco, a few blocks away from where Shaw works, and, well, Root’s been getting inked since she was fourteen. The proximity to Shaw made a high concept piece possible, and from the amount of time Root’s spent admiring her own thigh in mirrors lately, she can tell it was a good choice.

“All set,” Harper breaks into her internal narrative, and Root almost drops the portfolio book she’s still holding, but manages to keep a grip on it and slide it onto the top of a nearby display full of stretchers.

“Thanks,” she recovers her poise and takes a second to pull the teasing, playful persona she showed Shaw last time she was here forward. “Hey, sweetie,” she greets Shaw as she strolls through the archway into the back room. Shaw nods briefly, eyes on her rolly table of ink caps in varying shades. The sound of needles buzzing is pervasive and invading, makes Root feel a little like her skeleton is vibrating already. A mild shiver passes over her body, even though it’s not cold in the room.

It’s busy today, Joss is leaning over the shirtless back of a large, muscular man who’s grimacing like he’s narrowly avoiding leaving teeth marks in the leather of his chair. Zoe is working on an androgynous person’s calf, long hair sticking to her neck with sweat.

Shaw has her station turned away from the room, so Root will have her back to everyone again, and the wooden fold-screen will protect her from casual glances coming out of the shop floor. She hangs her bag carefully on the stand hook by the wall and shrugs her coat off, hanging it carefully over the top of her bag.

“Heal up okay?” Shaw inquires brusquely as Root starts to unbutton her flies, and then thinks better of it. She waits for Shaw to look up, to nod agreement with unreadable eyes before she unzips and slowly peels her jeans off. Shaw’s eyes flick down almost too quick to catch before she steadies them on Root’s face.

“Completely sucked for a day, partially sucked for two more.” Root deliberately lifts her long leg over the red leather bed and then sits down, straddling the base so she’s spread out in front of Shaw. She hides her grin at the brief flicker of interest Shaw isn’t quick enough to conceal.

“Mmm,” Shaw makes it sound somehow dismissive and derisive without actually being rude. “Looks good.” She grabs her razor and leans down.

Root watches the silver blade slide over her skin, watches the easy confidence of Shaw’s hands. The boisterous, nervous excitement that’s been with her all day at the idea of getting more ink rolls into warmth. She obediently turns onto her side to let Shaw get the back of her thigh.

“If you could just move the fabric up a bit further,” Shaw sounds professional, so detached it takes Root a second to figure out what she’s talking about. The request seems so separate from the intimacy of Shaw’s gloved hands on her skin. When she rearranges her underwear so more of her cheek is exposed Root can’t tell if she’s imagining the too soft inhale behind her.

Shaw’s hands are business-like, the scratch-slip of the razor is smooth and practised. Root’s skin tingles in the wake of the blade and she tells herself it’s just the adrenaline of remembered pain, anticipated pain that makes it feel like Shaw’s leaving glowing marks on her skin.  Shaw pushes her leg up and Root closes her eyes, tries to ignore the hot rush that swamps her stomach.

The razor lifts away, Shaw’s hands are gone. Root doesn’t move, it’s safer just to stay here. She thinks if she looks at Shaw right now she’ll have to either drag Shaw on top of her or run away. And she’s not wearing any pants so a swift escape doesn’t seem feasible. Besides, the itch to stain her skin isn’t going to leave her, she may as well see it through. Any minute now there’ll be a needle in her and it’ll be easier to remember that this isn’t all some kind of elaborate foreplay.

“Stencil,” Shaw alerts her to the approach of the paper before it brushes her skin, making goosebumps stand up on her thigh. Her arm is crooked under her face, she’s breathing into her own elbow and it’s hard not to bite down like she would under different anticipatory circumstances.

The light press of paper, rustles, movement, more paper, more pressing. The drag of a pen as Shaw corrects or adds to the pieces. Today she’s joining the piece up and putting in as much of the colour as Root can sit through, and then hopefully it’ll just be touchups left. The realisation that this session, this second session, could be the last one that takes up any actual time leaves Root feeling split. On the one hand, she totally underestimated the effect Shaw... getting tattooed by Shaw would have on her, and on the other the idea of not seeing her again for a while is completely unacceptable.

When Shaw checks in before lowering the machine to start stitching lines along Root’s ass cheek, Root amuses herself by starting to plan her next piece, and trying not to accidentally ask Shaw out on a date.

The pain is good, focussing and distracting at the same time. It’s a sharp-dull scratch-ache of a feeling, the thrumming that echoes through Root’s skeleton making nerves dance from her toes to her scalp. It sinks through her, she passes through the place of immediate pain into the softer world that follows. She thinks about jerking off with her fingers pressing into the plastic wrap over the blooming roses that Shaw wrote on her skin.

Getting inked always makes her feel dreamy, strung out. Her body yelling signals her brain doesn’t tell her to pull away from, the endorphins seeping up through her system to mellow the sensation until it’s not even annoying, until it feels good. Root thinks she could fall asleep if it wasn’t for the hyper-awareness of Shaw shifting and moving, brushing her knee against Root’s dangling fingers as she shifts. Root could grab her thigh from here, could roll her hand over and just... curl her fingers around Shaw’s muscle. She wonders what she would do, if she’d pull back like she was burned or if she’d gently unfold Root’s fingers and place her hand on the bed in unmistakable rejection. If she’d lift her leg up into Root’s hand. Root wonders if Shaw could concentrate enough to ink her while getting fucked.

“Good?” Shaw asks, the machine idling in her hand, unreadable and flat-voiced.

“Yeah?” Root sounds a little dazed to her own ears, a little sticky and off-balance.

“You’re breathing really fast.” Shaw tells her matter-of-factly. “Have you eaten?”

It takes Root a second to drag her brain firmly out of the gutter and back into reality. She shifts, sits up as much as she can without turning over. “Yeah, I’m good. I could use some water though.” Root has a water bottle in her bag, forgot to get it out at the beginning, but Shaw slides her rolly chair back and busies herself by the sink at the back of the room.

“Get a fucking grip,” Root tells herself under her breath.

Shaw returns, offers her a plastic cup of water without commentary, and Root drains it in three slow gulps. When she puts the cup down on the little table next to her bed, she realises Shaw’s eyes are fixed on her throat and her hand is clenched at her side. Root licks her lips, and sure enough, Shaw’s eyes flick up to her mouth. Deliberately, Root parts her lips and takes a short, shuddery breath. Shaw blinks like her eyelids are heavy, and then something clatters in the front room, jerking the tension out of the moment.

Still, when Shaw’s hands come back onto her body Root doesn’t think she’s imagining the deliberate softness in them.

The humming recommences, and with it, the pain, but the break wasn’t long enough for Root to drop out of the sweet spot and she’s easy under Shaw’s hands, trying not to get lost in inappropriate thoughts again.

After a while, Shaw has her shift onto her stomach so she can reach to join the art up, and propped up on her elbows, Root can duck her head and watch Shaw’s face as she leans close to Root’s body.

Her eyebrows are scrunched in, heavy and drawn, but her mouth is soft and her lips are parted. There are fine little hairs sticking to the haze of heat around her temples, and her eyelashes are long and dark. With Shaw concentrating so hard, Root feels like she can stare and not get caught.

Shaw’s wearing a tanktop again, and Root has an excellent view of her arms. There’s a lot of muscle packed under the black and grey, Root can see the shift and play as Shaw moves the machine. Her veins are standing out with the heat and the effort, and Root imagines tracing them with her tongue, tying Shaw up and letting her strain against the bonds while she outlines every single one.

The noise of the machine slips into idle, and Root glances over her shoulder to find Shaw’s eyes on her. “If you...” Shaw pauses, but she doesn’t seem overly uncomfortable, “if you’re unhappy with me as an artist, I can recommend someone to finish the piece.” She sounds as clipped and measured as the meticulously traced stencils lying abandoned on the tray table.

Root’s world shifts, schisms. Her brain can’t find the connection between the words Shaw is saying and the absolutely undeniable thread of sexual tension between them. She explores and abandons a dozen responses in less than a minute before laughing softly and shaking her head, deliberately shifting her gaze away from Shaw and relaxing her body.

“I’m completely happy, but thanks for checking in.” She puts her head down on her arm, waits for Shaw to make a choice. Shifts her leg less than a quarter inch further open. Shaw can’t possibly miss the subtext but she could choose to misinterpret it, and Root’s not sure what decision she’s made even after the hum-buzz of her gun starts back up and she taps the area she’s about to ink.

The following hours don’t make it any clearer, even when Zoe packs up her station and tells Shaw she’ll see her later. John takes off after her after admiring the work Shaw’s done on Root’s leg so far. Joss locks them in when she leaves at around 8:45 pm, five and a half hours after Root sat down, and Shaw just keeps working in silence, moving Root’s leg to suit her needs.

Root’s beginning to think she’s completely misread everything, that Shaw is, in fact, that completely oblivious to the thoughts running through Root’s head when Shaw turns the gun off.

Her whole leg is throbbing, but so is everything else, and it’s worse than last time, the heat in Root’s blood almost overwhelming. She can’t stop thinking about the way Shaw looked at her throat, but Shaw is wiping ink and blood away with a blessedly cool cloth and the moan squeezes its way out of Root’s throat before she can stop it.

“Uh, wow, that feels really good,” she tries to laugh it off but her tone is too heavy and Shaw still isn’t letting a damn thing show on her face.

Then, as Shaw leans over to pick up the plastic wrap, Root catches the hint of a smirk tucked into the corner of Shaw’s mouth and it’s enough to let her relax a little, let the school-girl level fluster die down. Root hasn’t been this useless in front of a pretty girl since Jenny Brewer first let Root put her hand up her shirt in eighth grade.

Shaw doesn’t respond to Root’s overly sexual declaration of pleasure, but she doesn’t seem like she’s rushing or withdrawn any further than she usually is. She sticks the plastic wrap on with even, skilled movements, making sure all the new ink is covered.

And then she wraps her hand around the back of Root’s thigh, over the fresh marks, and squeezes. It’s completely unnecessary, completely unexpected, and the pain-heat bursts through Root’s body like a white flash in her blood making her arch off the bed.

* * *

 

“Say ‘yes’,” Shaw tells her, somehow with only a note of mild interest in her voice, and Root nods too many times, too eagerly.

“Yes.” It’s almost a gasp, high pitched and airy, and Shaw smiles. She looks so happy Root wishes she’d said more.

“Say ‘please’.” Shaw cocks her head, relaxes her hand, squeezes. Root’s head thuds back onto the leather and she wraps her free foot around the leg of the tattoo bed to give her an anchor.

“Not...not really my thing.” She manages to get the words out past the weight of sensation pushing on her body.

“Good to know.” Shaw lets go of Root’s leg, pulls her old gloves off and new ones on with quick, practised motions. “Just to check we’re on the same page, I’m gonna fuck you now.” The words echo loud and harsh in the empty, brightly lit room.

“Sounds divine,” Root scrabbles internally for some chill, and mostly misses, but it doesn’t matter too much because Shaw’s palm is hot on her wrapped skin, the tightness of the plastic adding a whole new note of sensation to the almost-too-much of pressure on fresh injuries.

“Don’t pass out,” Shaw tells her, and Root has about half a second to think that sounds like excellent but quite difficult to follow advice before Shaw presses her fingers against the cotton of Root’s panties and runs them downwards.

She pushes the fabric inside Root, just a little. Maps the shape of her with all four fingertips touching whatever they can through the fabric. The material is almost a blessing, everything is so close to being too far. It’s too bright, too quiet, too hot. Her leg hurts too much-not enough and Shaw’s face is too still. But Root can see the pleasure in her eyes when Root shifts her hips towards her, trying not to let her tattooed asscheek hit the bed.

Root’s gasping for air, for more, for something, by the time Shaw gets bored of teasing, bored of gentle exploration and decides to hook her panties to one side and push inside her. The latex of the gloves she’s wearing is slick-sticky, catching a little, and Root wishes she’d licked her fingers but she’s fucking dripping wet and Shaw only has to pull out once, circle and slide back inside before it’s good, better than good.

Shaw fucks like she tattoos, with her eyebrows drawn in and her whole face focussed. Root can practically see her absorbing what makes Root groan and pant and arch for more or tense and shift away for less. Shaw reads Root’s body like someone gave her the manual ten years ago and she’s been studying for an exam ever since. Her hands are hot and strong and Root’s been on the edge of something for much too long today to even make a pretence of holding out.

She’s coming around Shaw’s fingers before they’ve even really gotten started, but Shaw doesn’t seem to mind. She has a smug little grin on her face when she gentles her hand over Root’s new ink before pulling it away. She fucks Root slow and syrupy until Root’s done and dusted, dragging air into uncooperative lungs.

* * *

 

“Good?” Shaw asks, and it’s the exact same way she checks in when Root’s flinching under the gun, and it makes Root laugh even though she doesn’t have the air for it.

Shaw snorts and sits back, legs splayed and hands on her thighs. Her black gloves blend into the dark ink around her wrists. She waits for Root like that, doesn’t bustle or busy herself, move away, and Root’s grateful for the peacefulness of it, there’s no demand in the air.

“Good,” she says finally, and sits up.

At least, it was her _plan_ to sit up, but what actually happens is that her body does a weird, rejection move to remind her that her ass is actually traumatised on one side right now, her legs don’t wanna work, and her whole system has had a bit of an upheval across the past six hours.

Shaw catches her before she actually falls off the bed, but it’s pretty close, and they wind up face to face, breathing each other’s air. Shaw’s lips part and Root wants to kiss her so badly it feels like an ache in her throat but Shaw’s already moving away, already closing off the open door that was between them for a little while.

“I didn’t really think this through,” she says carefully after a moment. “How are you getting home?”

“I walk.” Root catches up after a second. “It’s not that far.”

Shaw licks her teeth, twists sideways so the tendon in her neck begs Root to bite it while she fiddles with stuff on her table. “Let me pack down and I’ll walk you. You’re wasted.”

A dozen reasons to say no bubble into Root’s head, mostly to do with the fact that she’s definitely going to pass the fuck out as soon as she lies down, that she can just take a taxi, but then for some reason she’s just saying “thanks” and lying back down on her side.

She closes her eyes while Shaw packs up, listens to the metal on metal, metal on plastic noises. Shaw’s voice is low and as gentle as the touch on Root’s back when she’s done.

“Here,” she has a bottle of water, cold like it’s been in a fridge, and a sports logo on it that marks it as personal, not disposable. Root takes it gratefully and downs the whole thing. The snack bars she ate during the session seem to have left her, now, and she lets Shaw help her to her feet instead of complaining.

She does manage to put her pants back on herself though, thank you very much.

They walk in silence, and Root can’t tell if it’s comfortable or not, can’t tell much past the cotton-wool fuzz and leaden ache in her bones. She half expects Shaw to leave her at the door to her apartment building, but Shaw just follows her inside without a word.

Root thinks about pointing out that she’s done, capital d done and that Shaw isn’t getting laid even if she is being a gentleman, but when Shaw steadies her it’s without expectation or demand in her touch and to be honest Root can’t even be fucked to find the words. Shaw will figure it out when she collapses face down.

Shaw, however, doesn’t even come in. She watches Root open her apartment door, cocks her head and looks Root right in the eye. “Eat something before you pass out.”

Root dredges up a smirk from past the absolute wall of exhaustion bricking her up, “I’d love too, but I think I’d better just have a snack.”

Shaw rolls her eyes and pushes off the doorframe. “Call Harper to schedule your next appointment.” She throws over her shoulder, and Root watches her until she gets in the elevator before heading inside.

It's not until like two pm the next afternoon that Root thinks to check the security cameras at Machine Tattoos and remove the section where Shaw fucks her to orgasm in like less than a minute in the middle of the parlour. She keeps a copy for herself, though. Just in case she gets lonely some nebulous night in the future, when she's a different person and Shaw doesn't remember her at all. Maybe Shaw would like a copy. She'll try to remember to ask her, next time. 


	3. All Are Wolves

"Can you squeeze in a touchup?" The voice is instantly recognisable, honey-drawl with an undercurrent of something that sounds like the speaker is perpetually amused. Root. Shaw deliberately keeps her eyes on her work, a squirmy twenty-something getting a triangular Iron Rain tattoo on his calf, with some fiddly lettering. The convention she's at is pretty nerdy, and Shaw's done some good work so far this weekend, but this tattoo is shaping up to be one of her favourites, or was, until Root showed up. Fucking Root. 

"You missed your window." Shaw isn't usually an asshole about clients coming back somewhat later than advised for their final session, but Root's the one who bailed. Had an appointment, never showed, and left Shaw sitting at a loose end for an hour before she ended up tattooing her own foot just to give her something to think about. And now every time she sees the American Traditional style rose on her foot she's reminded of Root. She tells herself she just doesn't like the idea of a canvas walking around with flaws in one of her pieces, but something tight in her jaw is different than her usual low-level irritation feels, ever since Root left town without a word. Not that Shaw went looking, you understand, there just happens to be a bar opposite Root's old apartment building that she likes, okay. 

The 'V' in the text reading "omni vir lupis" looks slightly uneven, so Shaw wipes the kid's calf and goes back over it, lengthening one branch slightly. She hasn't needed a second pass on lettering in years. 

"Well, I guess I could get someone else to do it." Shaw still hasn't looked up, but she can see Root's hands in her peripheral vision, the way her fingernails are digging into her palm at odds with her voice. Shaw looks up, damnit. 

Root's pale, tired looking. There are yellowed bruises shadowing the side of her face, and a cut on her neck that had stitches in it until recently. A cut that looks like it almost killed her. The gun stills in her hand. Root gives her a lopsided grin, showing off a pink-white nick in her lower lip that clearly used to be a nasty cut.

"Come back in an hour," Shaw eventually says, after a pause that's so long her canvas tries to roll over and see what's going on. She pushes him back without even thinking about it, and lowers her head. When the itch on the back of her neck is too much to ignore, she looks up, but Root is gone.

She comes back though, an hour on the dot, and Shaw has had time to finish up the Darrow wannabe and clean up a bit, grab a burger from one of the food trucks, and spill mayo down her front. Obviously, it's the first thing Root notices. 

"You have a little something, sweetie." She drawls, unbuttoning her pants with a fine disregard for the convention at large and the screen that Shaw could definitely move. 

"I'm not your sweetie." Shaw gestures her to stand in front of the bed, then squats down to inspect the damage. The tattoo, that is. Not the remnants of bruising dappling Root's lower body. She doesn't ask what happened, even though the question in her throat feels like a lump of metal, pressing when she swallows. 

Root doesn't respond, and Shaw focuses on the ink. It's been six months and there's some wear from injuries. Jesus, Root looks like she's been at war. There's one, puckered, dangerous looking scar dragging just below her hip, skewing the ink, that Shaw itches to fix properly, but that's more than touchups, and the scar is still somewhat fresh. Shaw traces her fingertips over it, and Root shivers dramatically, but not exaggerated. 

"I can't fix that without another couple of months healing time, and multiple sessions," Shaw gives her professional opinion in a professional tone making entirely unprofessional contact with Root's skin while she does so. She can't seem to pull her hand away, for some unknown reason. Possibly the way Root's pressing into it. 

"Guess I'll have to make another appointment for that, then." Root touches Shaw's hair so lightly with the tips of her fingers it's almost like Shaw's imagining things, and her tone is thick and brusque when she sits back. 

"Gonna show up for that one?" She busies herself laying out fresh inks and cleaning her station, while Root unabashedly wanders around Shaw's booth half naked. 

"Unless it's completely unavoidable, yeah." She says it to a skateboard that Shaw painted with skulls, instead of turning around, and Shaw's grateful for the space. 

Completely unavoidable. Gun shot wound that backdates the bruising by quite a while. Shaw's no expert when it comes to scarring, but she feels like guessing it's six months old wouldn't be... out of the question. 

"Okay, get your ass over here," Shaw's as ready as she'll ever be, and Root sashays over to the bed with a smirk that makes Shaw regret her choice of words. 

"I'll put my ass anywhere you want me to," she tells Shaw as she sits down, her voice dripping with suggestion.

"I guess I'll come back later!" Shaw groans when she hears Zoe's voice, almost thumping her head down onto her carefully arranged tray which would have been a dramatic disaster. 

"Nice to see you again, Root. You're looking... dangerous." Zoe leans forward and snags a box of Machine Tattoo patches from Shaw's merch station and then saunters off somewhere. 

Root grins and folds herself down on the padded surface, twisting onto her side so Shaw has an upclose and personal view of that wicked scar, but thankfully doesn't say anything more. Shaw gets to work. 

She spends much, much longer than she usually would on touchups, chasing every minor imperfection and telling dropper-bys that they'll have to come back later, over and over, until one dude complains that the convention is shutting down. When she looks at the clock, she sees it is indeed coming up to eight, and she's spent two and half hours doubling down on lines and shading that probably didn't need it. It's not been deep, or intense though, and although Root sighs happily when Shaw wipes her down, she's clearly not in too much pain. 

"How did you even know I was in town?" Shaw eventually grumbles, after sticking the bandaging on. 

"Instagram," Root says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It's weird to think that whatever Root's been doing, wherever she's been, she's been keeping half an eye on what Shaw's up to. 

After a moment or two of silence, with neither of them making a move to pack up or get dressed, as applicable, Root trails her fingers over the ripped denim covering Shaw's knee. "I'm sorry I left."

"Doesn't matter," Shaw says automatically, because it doesn't. Root's a client, a one night stand Shaw probably shouldn't have had, who thought better of coming back to a tattooist that fucked her when she was all hopped up from a solid tattoo. It shouldn't have been a surprise, and it shouldn't have felt uncomfortable. Shaw's the one being weird, here.

Another pause, more weight in the space between them than Shaw's comfortable with before Root swallows. "Yeah, it does." Root opens her hand on Shaw's knee, and for some unfathomable reason Shaw lets her. It's warm, and solid, and there's a hole the size of a quarter in the denim where Root's palm is pressing, hot and tingly. "Something came up." 

"And shot you?" Shaw's voice is dark with anger, suddenly, thinking about someone putting a bullet in Root, hurting her. 

"More than once," Root says lightly, and thunder rumbles in Shaw's chest. "You should see me with my shirt off." The invitation hangs, for a minute, two, before Root sighs and pulls her hand back. "Guess I missed my shot... chance." She corrects herself, and Shaw, almost against her will, looks up at her. 

Root's eyes are big and dark and sad looking, but still the same, arresting golden brown that Shaw remembers.

"Fuck it," she says, maybe in her head, maybe out loud, and she grabs Root by the collar, unheeding of her fresh tattoo, pulling her into her mouth.

They've never kissed before, but it works out perfectly, the exhale of surprised air Root puffs out onto Shaw's lip, the sharpness of her teeth scraping over Shaw's tongue. The thick, breathy moan she tries to swallow that fills Shaw's throat. It's not until she slides her hands down Root's sides and meets plastic and flesh that she remembers where they are, and pulls back with only a little embarrassing noise. Root's fingers are curled into Shaw's hair, and she chases her, trying to tug her back in, but Shaw reaches up for her hands and detangles, sitting back. 

"We should, uh... go somewhere. Else." She manages, not taking her eyes off Root's mouth. 

"Okay," Root has a smile that lights up the room, which is darker than Shaw remembers it being, because the main overhead lights have been turned off. 

"I gotta pack up." Shaw gestures vaguely around. And Root nods eagerly.

"Can I wait.. for you? Here, I mean." Shaw was gonna tell her to go to the hotel bar, or up to Shaw's room, but the look on Root's face says she'd rather wait and watch Shaw rather than any alternative. 

"Yeah." Shaw eases herself back in her chair, her eyes flicking down, "but you should, uh, probably put some pants on."

Root helps Shaw pack up her inks and pile everything onto a rolly cart to take back upstairs. Some of the artists leave their wall stuff up over night, but Shaw had a painting stolen once and she'd rather lug everything back up to her room than have it nicked. 

Once they've wrangled the cart into the elevator, down the corridor and through Shaw's door, which is way easier with two people, not that Shaw would ever admit it, she doesn't really know what to do. 

The curtains are open onto the small balcony, lights of the city below, and Shaw pads over to open a window, just for something to do. Warm desert air spills into the dark room, and behind Shaw the bathroom light clicks on and then the door shuts as Root goes in. 

Shaw sighs and clicks on the bedside lamp before sitting on the bed and pulling her boots off, chucking them somewhere in the general direction of the door. When they were kissing, downstairs, it seemed like they'd just fuck it out, but now something seems difficult again, like Shaw's dancing to a tune she's never heard before.

The door opens again, and Root leans in the doorway, light flooding out and silhouetting her. She's come out into the room with significantly less on than she went in with. A wicked smile and a hair tie being all that she's currently wearing. Heat swirls in Shaw, the lithe lines of Root's body and the unapologetic flaunting of her nudity makes her shift a little in her seat, but as Root pads into the room Shaw sees the other scars Root alluded to downstairs.

Some of them are old, old enough they must have been there long before, but the pink shine of newness still shows on the knot of scar tissue just below Root's collar bone, and another, long line skittering over her ribs.

"You must have really pissed someone off," Shaw blurts, half wishes she hadn't said anything, but Root just grins and shrugs before making her way over to the bed and deliberately lifting her leg, placing her knee next to Shaw's hip and sliding into her lap. 

"It's a skill," she responds, but Shaw can't reply because Root is kissing her again and it's just as hot and intense as it was the first time, except now Root's naked and everywhere Shaw puts her hand is bare skin, hot and soft under her hands. Root shudders and moans quietly as Shaw tugs on her hips, pulling her closer, and they fall back together onto the mattress, mouths still meshed. 

Root kisses like she's on a mission, and that mission is make-Shaw-come-in-her-pants, sucking on her lower lip, her tongue, breathing in hot little pants onto Shaw's cheek. 

Shaw growls and flips them when Root fastens her teeth onto Shaw's neck, definitely hard enough to bruise. Root huffs out air when her back hits the mattress, but doesn't fight it, just wriggles up the bed when Shaw pushes her. 

Sitting back, Shaw pulls her shirt and bra off over her head with alacrity, throwing them on the floor and grinning when Root's eyes drop. Shaw has great tits, she knows this, but the glazed over look in Root's eyes is surprisingly satisfying. She takes a second to cup them, roll her own nipples into hard points, arching her back deliberately. Root makes a choked off little noise and presses one hand between her legs, like the throb of arousal is too much to bear. It's fucking hot, and Shaw tilts her chin. 

"Touch yourself," she tells Root, her voice rough with arousal. "I want to watch." 

Root doesn't reply, just spreads her legs and trails her fingers down, leaning back against the pillows and skating one hand down her chest to join the other. She rubs tight, hard little circles on her clit, and Shaw leans forwards without meaning to, leans down and drags her tongue over Root's knuckles. They haven't even talked about safe sex, but Shaw's so far beyond that, here and now with Root spread out in front of her that she pushes the half formed thought away, concentrating on this. 

Root groans, moves her hand a little, out of Shaw's way, and Shaw makes a guttural noise in her throat as the taste of Root explodes over her tongue, making her mouth water. Root makes a matching sound, lifts her hips, and Shaw wriggles down onto her stomach so she can pull Root into her mouth. 

Hands slide into her hair, tugging hard, like they tugged when Root was kissing Shaw. Root tastes sweet and potent, golden warm light draping over her as Shaw looks up her body, curling her hands around Root's hips. 

"Fuck, yeah, just like that," Root moans, and Shaw redoubles her efforts, sucking soft skin into her mouth and then dipping down, pushing into Root's hot tightness. "Ohmygod," Root calls out, squirming like she's trying to get closer and Shaw smiles against her, closing her eyes and focusing on the pressing need to make Root come in her mouth. She doesn't use her fingers, too busy rubbing her face against Root, smearing wetness up her cheeks and over her chin with her enthusiasm. Root doesn't seem to mind, just lifts and moans and winds her fingers so tightly into Shaw's hair the pain flows down her spine and pools between her legs, making her grind herself into the mattress. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," it becomes a chant, exhaled in time with the sway of Root's hips, and Shaw groans back in response, forcing herself closer, pressing as deep as she can with her tongue until Root arches like a bow and shudders, grinding herself hard against Shaw's bruising lips as she comes in a flood of heat and tightness, snatching at Shaw's tongue with fluttering muscles before melting back into the bed with a satisfied grin on her face, her hands gentling in Shaw's hair.

Shaw's lips are tender and throbbing when she licks Root off of them, sitting back up so she can wriggle her pants off and get some pressure on her own, desperate clit. 

Root seems a little floaty and spun out, so Shaw just crawls onto her body, pressing her pussy against Root's thigh to take the edge off while she waits for Root to open her eyes. 

When she does, it's with a smug grin of satisfaction that Shaw finds weirdly hot, although that could be mostly the nudity and the taste of Root still in her mouth. 

"Gonna ride my thigh?" Root inquires lazily.

"Unless you have something better in mind," Shaw circles her hips, shudders and wriggles happily at the sensation of heat coiling through her. 

"Thought I'd fuck you through the mattress, to be honest," Root lifts her leg, "but I'm easy."

Shaw pretends to think about it for a moment and then grins, flopping onto her back and reaching out to pull Root on top of her. "Nope, that sounds good."

Root grins back and spreads herself on top of Shaw, pushing her hips down between Shaw's legs and making the smaller woman groan and clench. 

"Shit," Shaw grunts out as Root fastens her teeth back onto Shaw's neck, but doesn't push her away, lets her suck hard enough there'll be a bruise. It feels so good, thick, hot pulls slipping down her spine and making her throb and squirm. 

Pulling back with a wicked grin, Root lifts herself up on one arm and brings her free hand to her mouth, laving her first two fingers with her tongue. Shaw nods enthusiastically at the thought of having something inside her, and Root rearranges a little, slips her hand down between their bodies and trails her fingers over Shaw's pussy. 

"Fuck, you feel good," Root purrs, pressing gentle circles onto Shaw's throbbing, swollen clit before tripping downwards to toy with her entrance, "I wondered what it would be like to fuck you..."

"Well, not to sound pushy but now's definitely your chance to find out," Shaw lifts her hips, knotting her eyebrows together.

Root laughs lightly, a soft, tinkling sound that's sexier than it should be, and then pushes inside before Shaw can get any more demanding. 

Fuck, it feels so good Shaw makes a little surprised noise, and Root smiles with a look of genuine happiness on her face as Shaw presses into her hand. 

She slides out, then pushes inside again more slowly than Shaw would like, which she communicates by using her leg muscles to power her hips into a better pace, and Root acquiesces, speeding up and fucking Shaw just a little roughly, not enough to bruise but enough that she'll feel it in the morning even if they only go one round. Shaw thinks they're definitely gonna go a few rounds.

It's quick, messy and flawless, Shaw builds fast and comes hard, then pushes Root back down to the bed so she can ride her hand to a second, slower orgasm that leaves her heavy eyed and molten when she flops sideways, leaning her head on Root's shoulder. 

Root swings her leg over Shaw's hip, though, and her heat pressed against Shaw's side, slick and inviting, reinvigorates Shaw to squirm around on the bed so she can press her mouth against Root's softness again.

Root gets the idea fast enough, groans something out into Shaw's hip and snuggles closer. Shaw hooks her foot onto the top of the headboard, and they make short work of sixty-nining to a mutually satisfactory and well timed conclusion. 

Still upside down on the bed, lying on her back looking at the plain white ceiling, Shaw tries to remember the last time she had sex that good. 

"You okay?" Root inquires, after a little while. She's sitting up, somehow, Shaw didn't even notice her moving, and her hair has come down. It's wild and tangled on the sheets, makes her look younger, somehow. Softer. 

"Great," Shaw says, and she actually means it. The warm afterglow of excellent orgasms is still flowing through her, her pussy's throbbing comfortably, and she feels sleepy and self-satisfied. Also a little hungry. "I could use a snack, though." As soon as she's said it, her stomach rumbles, and Root giggles in an entirely unexpected way. It seems too light and real for her. "M gonna room service." Shaw decides, sitting up and running her hand through her hair. "Also shower."

Root looks at her for a long moment, and Shaw can't figure out why, and then Root twists her mouth small and to one side and nods. "Okay, I'll, uh, get out of your way."

Oh. Shaw realises, Root thinks she's trying to get rid of her, which actually wasn't the case at all.

"I'm just hungry. And sweaty. I wasn't trying to get you to go." Shaw slides out of bed. "I'm not the sharing type, but you can order yourself whatever." She hopes that Root understands that 'whatever' doesn't actually mean a $200 lobster. Shaw's not broke but she's not rich either, and this hotel--hosting the convention--is out of her usual price range. She pauses in the bathroom door, but can't think of what to say, and heads onto the cold tile without elaborating.

She half expects Root to be gone when she emerges in a cloud of steam, drying her wet hair but still naked. Root's not, though, she's sprawled in the bed with a sheet across her lap, idly scrolling on her phone. 

For lack of any better ideas on what to do, Shaw picks up her own phone, and groans when she sees the message from Zoe. //I bet John $100 that you fucked her did you fuck her make me rich. 

Shaw clicks her phone dark and leaves it on top of her bag.

It's a bit weird now that they're done fucking. Shaw thinks she'd leave now if this was someone else's room, but she's just told Root that she wasn't kicking her out, so it would be weird to go back on that now, and Shaw's not totally sure what to do. 

"What're you doing in town, anyway?" Shaw asks, after a minute. Half-wondering if Root just came here for her. But then why not just drop by the shop sometime, instead of halfway around the country?

There's a pause and then Root looks up, putting her phone down. "Here on a job." The answer is about as close to a non-answer as possible, and Shaw huffs air out.

"What are you, a secret agent? Demon hunter?" She snarks, bending down to pull her boxers out of her pants and pull them back on with a tshirt before room service gets here. 

"Something like that." Root gives her an unreadable look, and Shaw rolls her eyes.

"Fine, don't tell me." And it is fine. Shaw doesn't know what this is, but it's certainly not a third date. Root doesn't owe her jack.

Root sighs, a long, deep thing, and then cracks her neck. "I'm... a freelance IT specialist, who is currently somewhat on the run." 

"Sure," Shaw pulls a face at her, and then catches the look on her face. A sort of hopeful, naked look. "..you're kidding."

"Not this time," Root lifts a shoulder, splays her hands, "ran afoul of a conspiracy, got jumped, barely escaped with my life. Spent some time licking my wounds, got a new cover, new job. Probably fucked the pooch by coming to see you."

That's... a lot. Shaw doesn't really know what to do with any of that. "So why did you? Come and see me?" 

That's definitely not the most important part, but it's important none the less. 

Root opens her mouth to answer, and there's a knock at the door. "Room service." Shaw moves to open it, but Root catapults out of bed and shoves her away from the door, just in time.

Two bullets rip through the wood and then it's kicked in, and Shaw doesn't know what the fuck to do when two armed men barrel into the room. Root, however, does. Every light in the room, the hallway and the bathroom included, goes dark. In the split second of adjustment, Root smashes one of the men across the wrist, turns him around some how, and uses him as a human shield. The other guy's gun is already spitting, and the man Root's holding shudders as he absorbs the projectiles. Root throws him at the other guy, and kicks the uninjured one in a precise pattern, knee, elbow, head. He goes down hard, doesn't move, and the bedroom light clicks back on without Root touching anything. She's breathing hard, still naked, and Shaw hasn't moved since the bullets came through the door, mostly because she has absolutely no idea what to do.

"Guess they caught up with me." Root sounds ridiculously calm, bending down over the two men and riffling through their pockets before cocking her head to one side and saying 'got it' to apparently no one.

"What the _fuck_?" Shaw inquires, very coherently, she thinks.

Root hops up, pulls her clothes back on in short order, and throws Shaw a sad smile. "Gotta go, sweetie. They'll figure you just picked me up at the convention, they don't know about before. I wish I could tell you more. Just... play dumb, you'll be fine." She says it too much like a question, and Shaw strides forward, grabbing her wrist.

"No, goddamnit, Root. You don't get to just... waltz out of here." 

Root gives her an affectionate look, and peels herself free of Shaw's hand. "I have to. But I'll be in touch, honest. When I've shaken them."

She strides to the door, cocks her head to one side again and then gives Shaw one more look. "I'm sorry." She's gone before Shaw can find a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wants me an Iron Rain tattoo. 
> 
> Sorry this took eighty four years, I've been absolutely ragged and this is the first chance I've had at free time where I haven't immediately just gone to sleep or melted in front of the TV. School is kicking my ass.


End file.
